


Better Luck

by QuillMage



Category: Tales of Symphonia
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-02
Updated: 2013-03-02
Packaged: 2017-12-04 02:21:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/705412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuillMage/pseuds/QuillMage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone Zelos has ever allied himself with all have one thing in common.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Better Luck

**Author's Note:**

> The letters in the dividers represent a change in point-of-view and period in time.  
> Past-perfect tense makes me simultaneously homicidal and suicidal. All 7,280 keystrokes of the first section made me want to cry in frustration and scream in raw anger.

`— — — Z — — —`

Zelos had first met Mithos either a very short or a very long while after meeting Yggdrasill—the exact date of his agreement to work with Cruxis was always a bit blurry for him. It wasn’t until he had been in his early teens that he made the connection between the two.

Even back then, Zelos was no fool, he had known no good could come from the angels with brightly-colored wings and smiles that made one want to run and hide in a corner. Those angels had been nothing like the ones in the stained glass cathedral windows. Their wings should have been feathery and white, not sparkling and translucent; and their eyes should have held kindness, but instead they had held hunger, calculation, and a look of pain, regret, and loss that Zelos sometimes saw in the mirror when his mask slipped.

More than anything, that had disturbed him—he hadn’t wanted to become angels like them—so he had decided he hated the angel with the dead expression and even deader eyes; the angel had seemed to almost want that, a passionate emotion, even a negative one, in Welgaia was like a scream in a sea of silence. Zelos had also had a feeling that he was an outward source of the hatred the angel felt at himself—and that had only made Zelos hate him more.

Still, those twisted parodies of the heavenly beings he was brought up to worship alongside the Goddess Martel made him the offer he could have never hoped to be able to take. They could transfer his Chosen title onto his beloved sister. This had been probably what had shaped his beliefs and what would serve as his blindfold for many years to come.

Nonetheless, even back then Zelos was no fool, he had asked for time to think about his decision; though it was suspicious for a child as young as he’d been to act on anything but impulse in his situation, they had granted his request.

It wasn’t until he had been in his early teens that he had realized why.

For as he had once more sat on the railing of the pathway leading to the Colosseum at night to weigh his options, a boy of about fourteen had approached him.

The boy had introduced himself as Mithos.

Zelos had thought he’d looked familiar but had passed it off.

They had talked and the next day Zelos had agreed to join Cruxis.

Every once in a while, when Zelos had been forced to go to that lifeless angel city, he would see Mithos. Mithos had become his friend at the time, someone who had been years older than him yet still saw him—not as the Chosen, a person who friendship meant higher regard in court—but as the kid he had been.

Mithos had told him that he had needed to learn to fight if he was to survive journeys into the monster-filled lands beyond Meltokio’s walls and had offered to teach him.

Zelos had accepted and then had been given a shortsword with a white blade and an even whiter sheath that he carried to this day—perhaps as a memento of something that never should have been and never was, or perhaps because of a completely different reason altogether, or perhaps he didn’t remember where, who, it had come from.

Whenever they had practiced, and Zelos had inevitably lost, Mithos hadn’t pointed his sword at Zelos’s throat like most would to signify another’s defeat, but rather laid the edge against the left side of his neck and had said, “You lose; better luck next time, Zelos.”

He had only sparred with him a few times, for he had never again saw his friend Mithos after wings—a golden color matched by no mortal treasure—had been made to sprout from Zelos’s back, while Yggdrasill had watched on with that disconcertingly terrifying smile-smirk of his and eyes that reflected amusement and something vaguely familiar—what that familiar thing was had eluded Zelos as he had been in too much pain from the unnatural transformation to compose any form of coherent thought.

That had been around the time resentment for Yggdrasill had begun to take root, paving the way for the internal mockeries Zelos made in his lordship’s presence in Zelos’s young adult years.

Then one day, a great enough time had passed that he no longer thought about Mithos, when he had been in his early teens—a boy of about fourteen—Zelos had walked into the room that housed the Great Seed.

And he had seen the Great Goddess Martel in troubled but motionless slumber.

Zelos had stared at Martel for a very long time; Her pain had been almost a physical thing—a tangible, nearly suffocating presence that _hurt_ , and weighed heavily on the hearts of all those who stood before Her.

The sight had been enough to bring the most heathen of men to their knees, which had been exactly what Zelos had done as he had slowly knelt in front of Her to pray for whatever that caused such agony be healed or go away for all of time.

Zelos had not realized his wings had begun to gently unfurl and—because his eyes had been closed—he had not seen the shadow that had fallen across him that, after some consideration, had become a smaller shadow and had floated down to quietly land.

However, Zelos _had_ felt when a hand had clamped painfully onto his left shoulder and he _had_ heard when a voice had said, “ _What_ are you doing here?”

Zelos had leapt to his feet and turned around, taking a few hurried steps back before he had frozen, “Mithos?” Zelos then had managed to process the question, “Oh, I was wandering about and stumbled across the room.” Zelos had hesitated, “Is…this Martel?”

Mithos had looked up at Her. “Yes.”

Zelos had been silent for a moment before he had said quietly, “She looks so sad…”

Mithos had looked back down to him, “You were praying for Her happiness?”

Zelos had then turned around to lift his gaze up to Martel. “Yeah…” Zelos had then been struck with the revelation that he was intruding upon the most hallowed of ground without permission and that it seemed almost as though this place held much more sacred significance to Mithos than it did even to the Seraphim. Zelos had then turned his head back to look at Mithos, “May I?” Somehow Zelos had thought he should ask Mithos first, though he had no reason to believe that he had needed to do so.

Mithos had locked gazes with him and looked into his eyes for a long moment in which Zelos had realized the truth. “If you wish.”

Zelos had swallowed and turned back to Martel before he had slowly reached out and laid his bare hand on what he had expected to be a cool and hard glass-like surface.

It had been warm and had pulsed gently like a heart that beats far too slowly. He had heard something like the beautiful voice of a woman who was very far away coming from within; Zelos had then leaned in to press his ear against the surface.

“You should not be doing this.” Zelos had spoken.

Though it had not sounded like they had been his words and his golden wings had seemed to flicker out when he had spoken; but it had been gone as soon as it had come.

“You’re right,” Zelos had said softly in an almost ashamed tone, taking a few steps away, “I should not be doing this.” His wings had disappeared as he had looked towards the ground—having misinterpreted the fresh stab of pain that had pierced his heart, “Please forgive me, Martel.”

He had bowed to Mithos, “My lord.” He had acknowledged as he had left.

Zelos had tried to ignore the chills that had been sent down his spine by the chuckle of a voice that had not belonged to a fourteen year old boy.

`— — — Y — — —`

It was an odd scar; Yuan had been able to get a closer look at it when Wilder had to be beaten into unconsciousness when he had put up a very great fuss at having to visit the Flanoir Renegade Base on the anniversary of his mother’s death—not that Yuan had known that at the time or he would have had the decency to wait an extra day.

The mark had been a very pale line on the left side of Wilder’s neck, invisible to all but angel eyes or a magnifying glass. Yuan had not thought much of it when Wilder had started letting out a string of curses before he had even fully begun to come to.

Yuan had passed it off as a long-healed injury and left it at that. When Wilder came in to report on Kratos and son’s actions, reactions, and interactions one time, Yuan thought he had imagined the slight redness around the scar.

The next time Wilder came in to give his report and complain about Kratos, Yuan _knew_ it wasn’t just in his head and that Wilder truly did have what looked a great deal like the beginnings of a first-degree burn in a thin line of the left side of his neck.

“‘-next time, Chosen.’ Can you believe that bastard, saying that to me? And hey, you’re not paying much attention to me are you? I guess I’ll just start saying incredibly sexual things, mm’kay? So, a couple days ago I was finally about to get lucky ‘cause I’ve been tryin’ to get into Lloyd’s pants **for** - **ev** - ** _er_** ”

Where could Wilder have gotten that scar?

“-and I was about to go in for the lips when we were suddenly pulled apart by _Kratos_. Then he told my bud to go back to camp, ‘cause we were near some woods. I told Lloyd that I’d be fine and that if I died the entire female and half of the male population of Tethe’alla would gang up on the old man. When Lloyd finally left, the old man asked what the hell I was planning to do with his son and I told him flat out what I was going to do in explicit detail.”

Yuan started going through his list of possible causes.

“I didn’t get very far into it though before he cut me off saying that if I wanted to get to his son that I’d have to go through him. So I said ‘Gladly’ and, _fate_ , lemme tell ya, I always got the feeling he was kinda sub but he just _melted_ , not two seconds into makin’ out with him I already had him up against a tree; you wouldn’t _believe_ how difficult it is to get those damn bondage belts off of him.”

There was always the possibility it was merely an old wound that periodically acted up. But that didn’t sound right; after the incident with the anniversary of Mylene Wilder’s death, Yuan had made sure to look thoroughly into Wilder’s history.

“He was _totally_ more agreeable than he normally is—when you’re talkin’ about his personality isn’t the only time you can apply the term ‘tight ass’ to him—but he called out _your_ name in end. I always knew that hatred you two pretend to have for each other is really just major sexual tension, though I wasn’t sure who topped ‘til then. Wow, you really can’t hear a thing I’m sayin’, can you? Oh, I have a _really_ good one; if this one doesn’t get you _nothing_ will.”

Maybe Yuan could ask him later if he can be bothered to remember.

“I don’t believe I’ve ever told you about my first wet dream; so I was in the Grand Meltokio Cathedral when suddenly the most beautiful angel babe emerged from the center stained glass window—you know, the giant one you see when you first walk in. And lemme tell ya, it wasn’t Colette that-”

“If you value your health you will not speak another word.” Yuan said in a deadly tone.

“Heheh, that got your attention, didn’t it? Stories of my sexual prowess can be riveting, can’t they?”

“For your sake they better be fictional, boy.” Yuan practically growled.

“Maybe they are, maybe they aren’t.” Wilder replied with a smirk.

“Are you looking for a fight, Wilder? Because it certainly sounds like it.”

Wilder laughed, “Chillax, I made them up. Really? _Me_ willingly kissing _Kratos_? I didn’t even vaguely _try_ to make a half-decent attempt at actual storytelling; though I’m not lyin’ about how I think he’s a total sub.”

Yuan recalled Martel telling him how Kratos had once said when the two had been in Gaoracchia Forest that the only way Kratos knew how to live was as a knight under a master and Yuan found himself unable to disagree with Wilder’s probably rather accurate assessment.

Wilder assumed a thoughtful expression, “Though a fight would sound good, I’ll never get better if I don’t battle against opponents with different fighting styles.” Wilder hopped off his perch on Yuan’s desk that he’d taken so often Yuan had given up on telling him not to do so and gave Yuan a smile filled with playful challenging, “And you gotta wield the weirdest blade I know. So how ‘bout it? A friendly fight between allies? It’s not like you got anything better to do from what I can see.”

Yuan raised an eyebrow at him. “You seriously think you can defeat me?”

Wilder laughed, “Hell no! But I can try; I believe I can hold out longer than you think. Plus, haven’t you always said how you wanted to ‘humble me’ someday? This is _your_ chance to attempt the impossible too.”

Yuan gave him a half-smirk, “Very well, but remember, you brought this upon yourself, Wilder.”

— — — — — — —

They stood facing each other as the Triet Desert winds pounded against the invisible barrier surrounding the Renegade Base meant to protect against sandstorms. Renegades had gathered about the entrance to watch the match between the two ‘travelers’ who had, according to Lord Botta, not taken ‘no’ as an answer upon seeking refuge from the harsh desert winds.

“You know,” Wilder began, “at the Colosseum, the matches are fought on sand because it absorbs the blood.”

“Oh, so you expected your defeat; that explains why you chose to have our fight outside.” Yuan replied as he casually fell into a battle stance.

Wilder spun his shortsword around in hand and flipped it over his arm in a highly theatrical manner—no doubt his unique way of stretching to prepare for battle—before smirking, “You ready for this, Blueberry?”

“I suppose you wish for me to counter with something equally childish such as Strawberry or Carrot-Top? Because if you do you shall be very disappointed.”

Wilder laughed, “Okay then, let’s go!”

“As you wish.”

And they began.

Yuan had to admit, he had underestimated Wilder; because he used the same weapons and techniques as Kratos, Yuan had expected him to fight like Kratos.

He didn’t.

“Haha! Too slow!”

While Wilder did not possess the physical might of Kratos, he was far more agile—something Yuan attributed to the four thousand plus year gap that had allowed training methods to evolve over all that time. Kratos, with his strength and raw ability, was able to block and parry multiple attacks, at once and in a constant barrage. However, blocking and parrying took more energy than ducks, dodges, and sidesteps, all of which Wilder made greater use of.

If they used their wings, all three of them would become faster and more graceful, but with his and Kratos’s superior experience level in being angels would balance out Wilder’s natural superior grace and speed that was shackled by his inexperience in airborne fighting and put all three on a relatively even level agility-wise.

However, right now they couldn’t blow their covers so neither could even cast spells, much less see who could cast the most Judgments while floating thirty feet off the ground.

Though, grace and agility still couldn’t beat experience,

“Ha! Missed m-ah shit!”

and—though Yuan would never admit it—sheer dumb luck that Wilder landed from a back flip wrong on the uneven ground and had to spend a crucial moment regaining his balance in which Yuan managed to knock Wilder’s weapon from his hand and in the same movement knock him to the ground.

Yuan smirked down at him, holding the edge of the swallow blade to the left side of his throat, “You lose; better luck next time, Wilder.”

“Huh, you do it too. You guys have way more in common than you’d like to admit.”

Yuan looked confused before he noticed where he had habitually laid the edge of his blade.

So that’s where Wilder got that scar.

Though that didn’t explain the burns.

The spectators dispersed as Yuan removed his blade and offered his hand to pull Wilder up off the ground.

“Might I inquire as to the reason for the first-degree burns in the area around where I put my blade?” Yuan asked as Wilder bent to retrieve his shortsword.

Wilder laughed, “Have you _seen_ the old man’s sword recently? I’m surprised they’re not _tenth-degree_ burns, the thing looks like freakin’ magma flattened and sharpened into a sword. It feels like my eyebrows are gonna be singed off whenever it passes too close to my face.”

“I see…”

“Hey, don’t give me that look! Seriously, how does he even _sheathe_ that monstrosity?!”

`— — — L — — —`

Lloyd couldn’t stand it anymore.

“Zelos, why do you get that look on you face whenever I clean, polish, or sharpen my Dads’ swords?”

“Hey, I got no problem with the Vorpal Sword; it’s Flamberge I have issues with.”

“What do mean?”

“How can you even _touch_ that thing? Shouldn’t it like burn your hand off?”

“No, of course not; it only gets as hot as I tell it to—well, as I mentally tell it to anyways.”

Zelos’s eye twitched, “I see…”

Zelos seemed oddly annoyed given the situation. Perhaps he just needed to let off some steam.

“Hey Zelos, wanna spar?”

Zelos grinned, “You’re on, bud!”

_click_ **clack** _swish_ **slash**

“You’ll have to do better than that, bud!”

**click** _clack_ **swish** _slash_

“Missed me! Missed me!”

“Don’t forget the next line, bud!”

“Maybe if you win!”

“I’ll hold you to that!”

_click_ **clack** _swish_ **slash**

**CLANG**

“Well damn.” Zelos stated from his place on the ground.

They had disarmed each other simultaneously, but Lloyd carried two swords.

Lloyd held the Vorpal Sword triumphantly to Zelos’s neck, “You lose; better luck next time, Zelos.”

Zelos gave him a look that Lloyd wasn’t quite sure what it was before relaxing into that weird soft and contented smile—Colette’s words, not Lloyd’s—he sometimes got on his face then for some reason muttering something Lloyd could have sworn was “like father, like son.”

Zelos smirked and hopped to his feet, “I’m just havin’ an off day; next time, you’re the one who’s gonna need the luck!”

Lloyd laughed and Zelos grinned along with him, “I’d like to see you try!”


End file.
